


Kobayashi Maru

by Anuna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Post Movie, Pregnancy, Romance, team fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This thing we do will never be easy. It will never be safe, you will never have a normal life. But you don't have to walk down the path, you  can kind of... cheat your way through it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kobayashi Maru

**Author's Note:**

> Clint/Natasha, mild R. Post – movie, Avengers movie verse. Team. AU, because this certainly will never be on screen, but it's not leaving my head. Other than that I have no other excuse. I wanted to tackle a challenging scenario here and do it as realistically as possible, to keep characters true to themselves. Even though this fic deals with pregnancy, there are no white picket fences here. I started with a tongue in cheek kind of idea and ended up with something much more ambitious, and way longer than I planned. It turned out more personal than I expected it to. I hope you like it, I hope you can enjoy it. Beta read by awesome and amazing **yappichick**. A huge special thank you goes to my friend **daxcat79** for reading the first draft of this ages ago and basically telling me I can do a lot better. You rock, love!
> 
> Few things about this fic: Slow dancing fights off nightmares. It's a thing Clint comes up with and makes it a tradition. Tony does know what impolite is, sometimes he ignores it. He is a Star Trek fan (shiny tech!). Also, I adore him. (I adore them all). Steve is pretty much the sweetest guy you can imagine. Clint likes cheesy music. Discussions about science fiction are serious matters. Some references I used: Emmylou refers to Emmylou Harris, Alison to Alison Krauss; The River is Bruce Springsteen's album that was published in 1985. (it took 250th place on The Rolling Stone's list of best 500 rock albums), and it can be a depressive thing. (But it's also amazing). Fender Esquire Classic Series '50s is a type of guitar you can see on the cover of Springsteen's “Born to run”. 
> 
> _kobayashi maru – a no win scenario which can be won by changing the rules. in effect, it's cheating._ First mentioned in The Wrath of the Khan.

*

The dust is everywhere and it feels as if it's never going to go away. 

Natasha is looking for Tony when she walks into one of the devastated business buildings. In there, she sees Bruce being a doctor for the first time. It's the first thing that grabs her attention, and she stores it for later. She is tired, in more ways than one, and she just flies the details for later use. Bruce is wearing a too big pair of pants and a shirt that almost fits him, and in this moment he almost looks like someone else. Someone completely human and kind, someone like Steve. 

It's a room full of people. There are children, many children, looking scared, but the situation is slightly better because there's Captain America talking to them and telling them how brave they were. He does these things easily, and Natasha wonders briefly what he was like when he was younger. She read his file, of course, but that's not the point. The point is, he might be the only among them whom she can imagine as a child. 

Clint is sitting bit further away, observing. He is fiddling with his bow and she knows it's because he needs something to occupy his hands. She is familiar with the post battle twitch, her own and his alike; and when things calm down, the mind becomes a place too big, full of sounds and images and numbness. You need something to focus on, today even more than on other days, and to Clint his bow is a familiar. It's reassurance, if anything is, that things are normal again. She briefly holds his gaze and it's almost too heavy. 

“Steve Rogers,” Thor appears and calls from the door. “We need your help.”

Steve nods and turns to Clint then. “You mind?” he asks. Clint's hands pause, but that is the only thing that gives away the surprise. You don't call a hired assassin to watch over scared children, but Clint doesn't make any comment on Captain's request. He was pulling these children out of a crushed bus earlier. That's not a thing he usually does, nor does Natasha fight for a greater good. They're not good little soldiers, they don't march into battle, or they didn't; but she is too tired to think about all ways how things have changed today. Today is a day of firsts, Natasha thinks and shivers. Clint never tried to kill her before – he was sent to kill her, but he didn't truly try. Until today. 

Natasha observes as her partner walks over to Steve and the group of children. 

“This is my pal Hawkeye,” Steve says. Clint is far away from a pal, but it's what Captain America says, and on a day like today no one would argue with Captain America. Clint grins lightly and it's something that looks good on his tired face. He looks like the man who holds a guitar in the quiet hours while Natasha observes him from her spot on his couch. “He'll keep you company until I come back,” Steve says, and Clint crouches to the floor. 

“Is he a superhero like you?” a boy asks and Steve smiles. 

“Why don't you ask him yourself?” Steve says and pats the kid on the head, and despite the blood and dust and grime, Steve is a pure creature here. 

The questions start. Natasha observes Clint as he makes himself approachable and fairly gentle, and she thinks how she couldn't do this. She knows Clint is a patient man, but this is another of those firsts she hadn't seen before. When he shows a seven year old how to hold a bow, when rough fingers wrap around the small ones and they pull the string together, she wonders of his past. She knows Hawkeye, and she knows Clint, and there is a fine but solid distinction between them. Clint is that guy out of Springsteen's songs, one that still has a second chance in him; one that entertained people once, and didn't consider becoming so dangerous. She had seen him doing all kinds of things, some completely ordinary, and some of them horrible, but he is still more virtuous than her. She has no doubt. Yet, he had seen her, all of her, and never had turned his eyes away. And this, this is new, and she just watches. She doesn't have it in her to judge him in any way, because he just isn't like her. 

Even if he isn't more virtuous, he is still better human being. 

 

*

Love is for children. Love is for those who can afford it, who still have something to give and aren't afraid of giving. The more one has, the more one can lose. Having Clint is a luxury. Something she shouldn't allow to herself, but she is past the point of going back. He blended in into her existence, always present; like a background to her thoughts. Sometimes he feels like a part of her, and sometimes, in fight or in quiet, she doesn't consider them two separate entities. It's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, and usually she doesn't think about this, doesn't question the way things work. 

Until Loki and the battle of Manhattan. 

She isn't broken. Not by a long shot. But there are cracks, and they are more dangerous than outright, brazen damage. They make her not quite whole and not quite in control. 

The actual fallout happens months later, after Loki is back on Asgard and they have all settled into Stark tower. Each of them has an apartment and it's practical. Not even the fact that she is surrounded with all of them makes her uncomfortable. She is merely alert, like she always is, and this is possibly the calmest she had felt in very long time. 

Fury sends Clint on a mission that should be a simple walk in and walk out, but instead it goes wrong in all possible ways. For two long days they don't know if he is even alive. She copes, because that is what she does, but when she finally sees him, unconscious in Hulk's hands like a broken doll, something happens. Something gives in within her and the damage is final.

It turns out that he isn't even seriously injured, it just looks bad. There are cuts and bruises and the sight of injuries on his body makes her breath catch in her throat, but he is fine. He is alive, and not long after he can stand on his own feet and limp. She keeps searching his eyes, meets the familiar grey blue and the shadow of his smile; and she has to repeat to herself that he is fine. Whole, unbroken. _Alive._

She, she feels completely different. Like all those cracks have connected into a fine spider web of damage and just one touch could make her crumble like battered glass. 

She makes herself stay away at first. It doesn't work this time. Her web is cracking. 

Clint is awake when she goes to him, his bruises dark in the dim light of his room. She is careful when she first touches him, but he acts like it doesn't hurt. When she kisses him, he holds her and it's just what she wants. It's slow, deep, it's her and him, and this time it's not the post mission adrenaline they need to wear off. This time it's different, even though she doesn't know exactly how, or maybe she doesn't want to know. They don't usually do slow and sweet, and she doesn't let him kiss her cheeks and eyes like this, like she is his; but this time she doesn't care. 

He is always the calmer one between them, the one who doesn't have to plan every word. He keeps her honest, even if its only between two of them. They've been on this road for million years, going around each other in undefined circles, and finally she crashes here, fractured and damaged and completely raw. She touches him, familiar lines of his body that fits against hers and lets herself get lost. He is the only person that ever gets to undress her, and he is a man who knows what it means. It's him who is hurt, but she is the one comforted. She is held and cherished, and if she were someone else, this thing they're doing would have a name. 

She usually leaves his bed before dawn. They never talk of it, and they don't kiss in the morning next to kitchen counter with smell of coffee in the air. She doesn't wear his shirts, and he doesn't follow her under the shower. They don't spend entire day wrapped in each other like this, until she kisses his every scar and he touches each one of hers. They don't make love, him against headboard of the bed, her wrapped around him. They don't, and they shouldn't. But this thing they're doing for two days now, it feels like the only thing that will help her keep her head straight. Natasha can't help it, and she doesn't want to. All she wants is Clint, whole and alive, and right now, she can have him. 

In the dim light of early afternoon Natasha watches Clint cook and realizes things will change. She just doesn't know how. 

 

*

She stares at those two lines on the pregnancy test as if they're something too difficult to comprehend. They're not, and yet, it feels like her body shouldn't, cannot be doing this. 

She knows what she should do. There is no room for this in her life. It's hard to even form the word in her head, think what it really means. Part of her feels nothing, just nothing, because her body doesn't seem any different – she is an agent, an assassin, a liar; every piece of her remodeled and reshaped and made into this. All of that is still in place, where it should be, and there is no room for something tender in her life. 

Love is for children, for the innocent and unbroken, and she's a spider web of cuts glued back together and put into place. A mirror that returns a deceiving image, made like that on purpose. One isn't supposed to find the truth in her.

She cannot move from the bathroom sink and the mirror above it. Her face in it is pale and a little scared, an edge to her expression. She wants this to be a mistake. She wants to hide. She doesn't want to face this and make that decision. 

She wants to run to Clint and have his arms around her and just stay there, but her mind insists it's something she shouldn't do. Everything she knows and everything she is demands that she gets rid of this. She is a weapon, made to manipulate. She is a killer. She should be one even now. 

She goes to Bruce instead. Bruce, because he's eying her suspiciously for past couple of days like he knows something; because he knows how it is to deal with something you're afraid of. She sets the piece of plastic on his desk – the fourth test she's made, and they were all positive – and Bruce gives her this look, a mix of surprise and something kind and compassionate, with a hard edge around all of it. “Does Barton know?” he asks.

She swallows. She has this uneasy feeling, deep down to her bones; uncertain, anxious, frustrated; because she doesn't feel like having much control over this situation. There is a decision that she should make. She should terminate it, and she should just keep it to herself and everything could, would be fine as usual. 

“He doesn't,” she sounds too soft, almost weak and Bruce's face is all understanding and compassion and things she shouldn't reach out for, but Bruce Banner isn't Nick Fury. She chose to walk into Bruce Banner's lab. He regards her for a couple of moments, carefully, presses his lips together. 

“Do you need me as a doctor or as a team member?” he asks. She's looking back at him, contemplating this, and he continues. “As a doctor I could do tests, but I assume you are healthy and in good shape. As a team member -”

“I don't want to tell Clint,” she says suddenly, and winces when she realizes that she used his name. It feels like a lie and it wasn't even convincing. 

“Do you think it's going to make matters easier?”

She doesn't answer that. 

“I would want to know,” Bruce continues emphatically. “I would like to be a part of that decision.” 

She nods, starts to leave his lab. 

“Natasha,” she turns to him and he's holding the test in his hand, gently, like it's something precious. He gives her half of a smile when she takes it. “You're not alone,” he says. 

*

Clint doesn't believe in normal. It's a label that most people use to mark something expected and ordinary, something that lets them believe that the sun will rise and the life will continue the way it was yesterday. Obviously, it's a useless label for him. Clint prefers constants, and in his life there aren't many. He had taught himself to appreciate them and not grow too attached. 

Stark Tower, or rather Avengers Tower, is new. It's growing on him, and that's annoying, especially because he can't help it. Meanwhile Stark is playing a gleeful and intrusive mother bear who throws Clint a birthday party, one that Clint can't avoid. It turns out that others – Natasha included – have teamed up and got him a gift. Fucking Fender Esquire, the vintage Classic Series 50s, and Clint is speechless, but not because he has nothing to say. He could say too much. He plays the guitar instead, and they have fun together.

Later that night Natasha sneaks into his apartment, and her dress is silk and lace; not the thing she would usually wear. It's a mission dress, and _he_ is the mission. He gets to unwrap his present, and she stays the night. Another constant. He isn't complaining about this one.

Stark likes to emphasize Clint is a part of the team. It annoys Clint to no end; because he doesn't do teams, or at least that's what he's telling himself. His actions tell a different story, because he's listening to Johnny Cash albums with Cap and teaching Thor how to play football. 

Clint has to admit that Stark is a smart guy. He also firmly believes he is bound to punch Tony's face in foreseeable future, but Tony is right about one thing. The normal, or the constant; it doesn't matter how he calls it, it exists. It's taken a distinct shape by now. Clint hasn't been on a possibly deadly mission in two months, and he doesn't mind it. It's pretty much clear that Fury considers them a team for special circumstances, which is fine. Clint does wonder, though, if this team actually needs him. He likes the camaraderie as much as the next guy, he just knows it's safer not to expect it. His set of skills doesn't really match those of a demigod, a super-soldier, or richy rich in a battlesuit. Let's not even mention The Other Guy, as everyone fondly calls Bruce's anger management problem. 

He can compare himself to Natasha – but she can do something neither of them can. Clint's heart grows darker as he contemplates that; the way she works, the why of her methods and skills. 

“Barton?” Thor's voice brings him back to present. As much as he disliked the idea of having the Asgard around him for longer periods of time, it turned out to be good. Clint presses his palm against the door sensor of his apartment and the door slides aside. “What did you think of my suggestion?” Thor asks.

“It might work,” Clint looks over his shoulder at two men accompanying him – Thor and Steve Rodgers - and reaches a conclusion. Hanging out with them is just fine, as long as it's not every day. Clint certainly isn't the only one feeling out of place here, and these two guys are as far away from normal as possible, which is comforting in a way. “We could beat any three man team of SHIELD agents any day, any sport.”

“It will work,” Steve says. He's not a foolish guy, but he is bright and hopeful, in his own way, even with everything that happened to him. He throws the basketball to Clint and Clint catches it, and if he's honest, this was fun. Not being in danger is cool, but he has to deal with excess energy somehow. Introducing Thor to sports is one of the better ways, and it's something that works for Steve as well. It works for Clint too, when he can't spend his time with Natasha. He doesn't want to put two of them into the center of everyone's attention, and if the team suspects something, they're not asking questions. 

Attention. Clint senses more than he notices something is amiss, but his instincts are rarely wrong. 

“Barton?” Steve asks standing beside him and looking around, then at him. 

“Someone was here,” Clint says. Then he sees it – he left three apples in a bowl on the table, and now there are two. “JARVIS? Was someone here while I was gone?” 

Tony Stark's artificial intelligence helper sounds like a perfectly polite English butler. 

“Agent Romanoff was here, Sir,” JARVIS responds, and Clint scans the room again. Natasha doesn't come here to pass the time, she comes - “She left you a message, Sir,” JARVIS adds. 

“Where?” Clint asks. 

When Natasha comes here while he's away, there's always a purpose.

“At the kitchen counter, Sir,” the pleasant voice directs him and Clint walks there.

What he finds is not something he expects. 

At first he just stares at the piece of plastic, trying to hold his thoughts in place. It's hard because they're threatening to explode all over. He knows Natasha. And he knows this - if she wanted to end this (his hands tremble just slightly when he picks up the pregnancy test from the counter), she wouldn't let him know. And he would never know. 

Clint just stands here, stares at the piece of plastic and two pink stripes on it when Rodgers and Thor walk to him. 

“Barton? Is everything in order?” Thor asks. 

“What is that?” asks Steve. 

“It's personal,” Clint says. Thor and Steve accept that – it's personal, they don't ask any more. They work like that, bless them. Clint's thoughts go to Natasha again, and his thoughts start spinning. She is showing him this for a reason. She is telling him that she needs to make a decision. 

“Is Natasha okay?” Steve inquires worriedly and Clint comes up with the most reassuring face he can muster. 

“Yes, I suppose she is. I need to go and find her,” he says, excuses himself and leaves Steve and Thor.

His mind hurries just like his feet do. Decisions are linked to options, and options to possibilities. In his life, and Natasha's, something like this wouldn't have been discussed before, and there would be no choices for them to make. It's a simple fact. Yet he is holding her message in his hand. He stands in front of her door for a moment, fingers tight around the test. Clint likes to think he isn't sentimental, but Natasha often points at his musical taste and tells him he is wrong. _Country is just load of sentimental crap, and you listen to it when you drive; so you're either sentimental or plain pathetic._

Sentimental is barely better than pathetic, he thinks when he presses his palm against the sensor. It recognizes him, and allows him in, but she is not there. Clint turns around, leaves her apartment and heads somewhere. Eventually he ends up at the top of the tower. Heights always help him feel better; where he feels disconnected yet still present. 

He remains there, alone, for an hour. 

 

*

Nothing in life can be rushed. Clint is good at coping with time. It doesn't matter if there's plentiful or not enough, he knows his way around the impossible odds. 

It's still not midnight when she comes. She can't sneak up on him, he had learned to sense her presence, but this time she is not even trying to remain quiet like she can. She doesn't come to his bedroom, though; she waits in the living area, wants him to meet her halfway. 

He sets his feet on the floor and goes to her. There is a balance to them and the way they work, because they're cut out of same cloth. To people outside he might look like the soft one, while she looks cold and detached, but Clint knows better. One fixes the other, he knows this. He knows her like nobody else does, he knows her because he watched her rebuild herself, over and over and over again. 

She stands by the window, looking at the city skyline and tiny little lights flickering in the darkness around them. It's not midnight yet, but it's close and she must be tired. She doesn't move even though she knows now he is here. 

The thing is, he doesn't know what to do. Sure enough, there are two options. It sounds simple, but it's not. 

“Nat,” he says, leaving just a little bit of distance between them. Just to give her room to breathe. She turns around and nothing more. She looks tired, and soft, and somehow younger than she usually does. Sometimes he forgets her age, forgets that he has years of everything ahead, because she is so hard-worn and weary, made into an old soul. They look at each other a little bit longer and he knows what she came for. 

He feels responsible for this. It's not only his fault, and technically, the only purpose of birth control is to work. Still, he can't not feel responsible, and the notion makes his chest expand and fill with things he doesn't want to name. “I've got your message,” he says instead of everything he wants to do. She nods. 

“What did you think of it?” she asks quietly. 

“Are you certain?” he asks gently. It's concerned, and he knows she won't mistake it for something he didn't mean to say. 

“Yes,” she says. Her voice sounds small and he comes a bit closer, nods. He knows one thing, he will not turn his back on Natasha. He will never betray Natasha, even if she chooses that option which will hurt more. And then, he shouldn't think about why it would hurt; it's bad enough to realize that he has preferences.

“What do you want, Nat?” he asks, and yes, he is the sentimental one. When her eyes meet his he cannot feel anything but willing, and even soft; ready to open his arms for her. 

But she is a different story. Everything is a process with Natasha, time and calculation and tact. He knows she is all webs and distraction, and that she needs time to come out of the shadows. What he cares about the most is her, and he will do anything to keep her safe. Anything. 

“I would rather not talk about that right now,” she lowers her eyes and he notices how one of her hands almost drifts to her stomach. She catches herself and stops the motion and he doesn't say anything, just lets her get away with it. She's not ready yet. 

“Then we won't,” another step closer, and he can feel the warmth of her body against his own. “Are you tired?” he asks and she nods. “We should go to sleep,” he says and that's when her body loosens and he knows it's okay to touch her. His hand touches her cheek, her shoulder, slides down her arm and she melts against him. He wraps her in his arms, absorbs all the weight she's been carrying and takes her to bed. They undress each other, until there's only skin, and his front against her back, his lips on her shoulder. 

She feels small in his arms, curled in the darkness, and it reminds him how insignificant all of them are. He tries not to think about how it's three of them here. 

“Clint?” she calls. It's small and soft and painful. 

“I don't -” she doesn't finish, and he pulls her closer. He thinks how she doesn't want this, but she can't just end it. It's the same thing he feels. He knows what she thinks – that ending this would be infinitely worse than all the red they're carrying around on their hands and souls, but he can't neither judge her or tell her what to do. 

“I'm here, Nat,” he says instead and means it, and he holds her until they both fall asleep. 

 

*

They don't tell anyone. It's like playing a song quietly, in the dark. For a few days it's just for two of them, their secret, like trying to keep sand in your hands and pretend it won't slip through their fingers. It's not comfortable, and unlike anything they've been through yet. There are small moments when he catches her staring at her reflection in the mirror, and he pretends he didn't see her do it. They don't talk about it, but it's there, constantly, like the air and the dull spring rain beating against the windows. 

It's three in the morning when sounds of retching wake him. He walks toward the bathroom and finds her on the floor, her face pale and exhausted, and vulnerable in a way he hasn't seen yet. He catches her eyes and a light flickers on, then goes out. Something in his chest twists uncomfortably for seeing her like this. He had seen her at worse, he had seen her worst, but never before he felt like he was the cause of it. 

He sits on the floor, not too far away from her as she rubs her face. The she looks at him, long and tired. 

“I feel awful,” she says, and it's the first thing she said about it for days, and he just nods. She wants to say something else, but before she can she has to throw up again, and here he is, holding her hair back, and handing her a glass of water when she slumps sideways against him. Her skin is clammy and cold and she shivers. 

“Do you want me to go and get something?” she shakes her head, closes her eyes; side of her face against her chest. Fingers fist his shirt, she tries to get herself upright and changes her mind.

“Just stay here,” she says. 

He stays. After she's done throwing up again, she falls against him and gives him a heavy, hard look. 

“What do we do, Clint?” she asks, and the way she sounds, it breaks his heart. He wants to tell her something, promise her something. Instead he kisses the top of her head, and feels like he's out of this moment, like he's observing it from above. How can this be happening to them?

“What do you want to do?” he asks. She moves, pushes against his chest slightly. She gives him a hard look.

“ Are you expecting me to do this – decide this – by myself? What about you?!” She breathes and he looks into her eyes – wide and filled with unusual anger. “Don't you want – don't you think -”

“I think you gave me that test for a reason,” he interrupts her. She closes her mouth, her eyes hard on his. “I think you wouldn't ever tell me about it, if you decided to terminate the pregnancy. If you wanted that -” her eyes grow, softer, sadder, glowing with a warning. He takes her shoulders in his hands and holds her. “You haven't even said the word yet, Tash. This has a name.”

“Clint -” she is shaking her head. 

“Say it,” he doesn't let her get away with it this time. “Say it,” he repeats, softly this time. 

A tear rolls down her cheek and she looks defeated. “I'm pregnant,” she says, and it looks like she crumbles onto herself. He pulls her close, so she's tucked under his chin and cradled against his chest, and he holds her, like a guy from a country song who can fix every fucking thing in the world.

“It's not the worst thing that can happen.” he says, soothing and feels something that could be a sob. 

“This isn't what we're made for,” she sounds more shaken, much worse than he expects her to. 

“If by made you mean trained, then no. We were _made_ for one thing, Nat,” he whispers softly, and pulls her apart from him just enough to look into her eyes. “Black Widow and Hawkeye have one purpose,” she swallows as she looks at him, doesn't believe he is trying to give her this kind of talk. “You were there. Can you go back there?” he asks honestly, seriously. He doesn’t think of himself as a hero, that's for Thor and Cap; but this might be some kind of redemption walk for them both. 

She doesn't say anything, but he knows the answer nevertheless, she might need this chance more than he ever will. 

“You're not just one thing,” he says looking at the bathroom tiles and stroking her sweaty hair. “I didn't want to do this to you.”

“Don't apologize,” she says. She's not _angry_ with him. They could deal with anger. “If you did, I'd wipe the floor with your sorry ass.”

“Right now?” he smiles after he hears the smile sneaking into her voice, and she exhales into his shirt. 

“It's too dangerous,” she says then, like she's seeking a reason to say yes. He nods, because he's been thinking about this too. It's constantly on his mind, every time when he tries to picture them - 

He stops the thought. It's a foolish wish, but a wish nevertheless. 

“It's dangerous,” his voice sounds so dark. “But I am dangerous as well. And so are you.”

“What are you saying, Clint?” she asks quietly. He isn't just saying things, he realizes he is offering them too, and she knows this. They talk in half thoughts, in codes, in looks. Things don't have to be spoken, they read each other too well, and he is trying to determine which words are safe to say out loud. Once you name something it takes a shape, becomes real.

He moves to look at her again and kiss her face, her lips, and lingers there as she relaxes. 

“There's more than one option, Nat.”

He knows what she's fearing. Each memory of his family is a sharp blade along his skin. It tears him, and it tears him because he remembers belonging to someone and wanting to be good for what he was. It hurts because he was never good. He knows she doesn't remember having a family – she remembers bits, scarps, flashes of images. She was robbed of everything good and happy, everything that once made her someone's child. Everything that made her loved and wanted, once. He likes to imagine that her parents did love her; he wishes he could imagine his parents loved him. 

Sometimes he wishes he didn't remember. 

“I learned to believe that you can be good at anything you want to,” he says, and he believes this. Natasha, she is made of survival, of bitter struggle, of not giving up. It's one of the things that makes them alike, and they have been both struggling for so long that he doesn't remember when his life wasn't some kind of fight. 

“This is different,” she says, emotions mixing in her voice. And it is different because it's something they really never were trained for, never meant for, and perhaps it's too big for both of them. 

“I know,” he says, strokes her hair. 

He feels heavy and determined and wishes, not for the first time, they were both different people with different lives. 

 

*

“Something's not right.” 

Bruce looks up and notices how Tony stares. He stares in Natasha's direction, well, actually Clint and Natasha's direction. Tony likes to pry, which makes him look rude, but Bruce thinks that Tony's rudeness usually comes with a purpose that's not immediately obvious to other parties. People usually don't figure him out. It's easier to believe he is an asshole; he makes it easy. That's his way of taking one for the team. 

“What do you mean, something's not right?” Steve asks, and so it begins. Steve takes the bait almost every time. 

Tony turns his back to Natasha and Clint, who are not talking in the kitchen area of Steve's apartment. They're far away enough not to hear quiet conversation between rest of the team. It doesn't take a genius to realize something isn't right, the very way they move around one another screams distress, but Bruce knows more. He also knows Tony well enough to guess that Tony has a list of suspicions if he's even bringing up this topic. 

“Hawkeye and Hot Lips,” he says, and the reference goes straight over Cap's and Thor's head, but Thor gives Tony a priceless look. Bruce knows it's aimed at him. He turns another page in his book and gives Tony a look, but doesn't comment. 

“What about Clint and Natasha?” Thor asks. Tony crosses his arms, he has audience now, Bruce included. 

“They're acting weird,” Tony begins, picking up a figurine of a baseball player from a bookshelf and comes to sit next to Thor on the couch. “I mean, they act weird on their good days, with all their secrecy going on, but something's not right for past week, or more,” Tony frowns, looks in Natasha's direction. “Have you ever seen Romanoff distracted?” he asks. 

Steve and Thor share a look, then steal a glance towards the pair. Bruce holds his tongue because he doesn't want to give Tony more ammo; but it seems Tony doesn't need it anyway. 

“She's being moody, and for someone who has every syllable coming out of her mouth in control, that's telling. She's not eating properly, and I am pretty certain she was nauseous. Twice, at least.” Tony is looking at Bruce now, and Bruce is staring back, and well, things can't be helped any more. He has figured it out. “Not to mention Barton is watching over her... like a hawk.”

To his credit, Steve rolls his eyes. Bruce closes his book. 

“Do you have a point?” he asks. 

“You know I have a point,” Tony says, arms crossed. “Do you know anything?”

“I don't read minds, Stark,” Bruce says. If Tony wants a scene, then let him make it himself. Not that it's a problem for Tony. Bruce isn't about to say one bit about Natasha's private matters. 

“What is going on?” Thor asks concernedly. He is probably the sanest person here, because he doesn't want to play games. He wants to discuss things openly, and ironically enough that's what Tony wants as well, but unlike Tony, Thor doesn't push and prod and manipulate people into unpleasant conversations. 

“I'm suspecting Natasha has a condition,” Tony waggles his eyebrows and Bruce takes a deep breath. This is not the time or a place to lose control. As on cue, Steve gives Bruce a look. 

“Stark,” he whispers warningly. But Tony Stark is one of those bratty kids who don't take no for an answer and he usually gets away with it. 

“Is Natasha ill?” Thor's face is momentarily covered with concern, and that's just what Tony wants.

“I wouldn't call it ill,” Tony just loves this. 

“Even if it's true, it's a private matter,” Steve says, and Bruce glances at him. Yes, Captain is the oldest among them, his knowledge of the world is vastly outdated, but he is far from stupid. At this point Thor gives Steve a look. 

“Didn't Barton say -” he starts and stops himself. 

“What did Barton say?” Tony latches on instantly. 

“That it's a private matter,” Thor says, and then turns to Bruce. “But what if her condition is serious? She – they – would tell us that? What do you think, Banner?” 

Bruce sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He's doing it to buy time. Tony butts in. 

“That's the whole point, Son of Odin,” Tony leans forward. “We're supposed to be a _team_. If we're a team, and there was a serious issue with me, or you, or Doctor Angry -”

“We get it, Tony,” Bruce says. 

“Well, what _do_ you know?” Tony asks and Bruce crosses his arms. 

“Do you understand the concept of 'private'?” This discussion reminds Bruce of their first discussion on the helicarrier, seconds before everything went to hell. 

“If what I think you know and I suspect really is true, how much do you wanna bet they are trying to come up with the right decision?” Tony whispers. 

“If whatever you think is true and they're trying to decide on whatever private issue, it's their decision, not ours,” Steve says. 

“See? It probably is true, because even he knows,” Tony says, points at Steve while looking at Bruce. “And if we all know, save for the demigod present, and we can't talk about it, we're not much of a team -”

“Because you don't accept no for an answer, do you?” Steve whispers back. 

“Because they're probably thinking it's them against the world. Again. Which makes me wonder how much of a team we are, if they're still thinking like that,” Tony concludes. 

“They have had difficult lives. It is not easy for them to trust,” Thor, bless him, understands. “We should let them know they have our support without prying.”

“Okay, let's do that, then,” Tony says, stands up and Bruce braces for disaster. “Hey Romanoff!” Tony shouts and both Natasha and Clint look up and in Tony's direction. “If you're really pregnant, which is what I suspect you are, we want you to know we'll support whatever decision you guys make. We also want you to know that if you do decide to reproduce – God help us all – we'll be supportive, proud uncles and we'll have your back and all that. Fury won't touch you, hell, anyone who even thinks about it will have to face us here. If you're not pregnant, however, we apologize -”

“For God's sake, Stark!” Steve stands up as well, looks at Natasha and Clint and their expressions are promising really painful things. “I'm sorry. We tried -”

“I believe that,” Clint says grimly. 

“You're pregnant?” Thor is on his feet now as well, but his expression is – well, joyous. This is probably a cause for celebration on Asgard, and it should be anywhere, but. Natasha looks at Bruce. 

“He didn't say a thing,” Tony says. “Neither did Super Soldier Boy, but I have no idea how he figured it out.”

“I recognized it in a film few days later. The test,” Steve addresses Clint. Clint sighs. Natasha looks frustrated. 

“Well then?” Tony asks. 

“How much do you value your right arm, Stark?” Clint asks. 

“Look, brave Merida,” Tony stares back at him, because he's very brave, or a fool, or both. “If something is happening to one of us, it's happening to the rest of us as well -”

Touching,” Clint cuts him off. 

“Okay, enough now,” Bruce is really tired of the pissing contest. He gets on his feet, and rest of them try not to flinch. They actually calm down and shut up, and there's one up side for having Hulk as an alter ego. “Even though Stark could use a lesson or two in social skills, the bottom line remains. If one of us is in some kind of trouble, and we're not sharing it with the rest of the class -” 

Bruce lets the words hang in the air. Cap looks at him, then gives both Clint and Natasha an empathic look. 

“He has a point there,” he says. 

“Agreed,” Thor adds. 

There are a few moments of silence. Clint looks a bit less furious and mostly concerned. Natasha looks at her hands, then looks at each one of them. 

“It's true,” she finally says. 

 

*

Later that day Steve appears at her door – with a smile, box of chocolates and flowers. Fucking _flowers_. 

She should yell at him, but she wants to cry. She doesn't, though, she gives him a bewildered look as he enters her apartment and she carries his gifts as if she's carrying explosives. 

“Why did you bring this?” she asks him when he takes a seat. His smile drops a little, but stays on. 

“You're pregnant,” he says. “Congratulations are in order.”

“Steve,” she says warningly. 

“No, wait,” he smiles softly. “Let me explain,” she doesn't have patience for this, not really, but she feels tired and she doesn't want to be unkind to Steve. “Uh... where I come from, it's a reason for celebration;” he says, like they come from a different place. Essentially, it is the truth. Steve comes from much kinder place than she does. 

Steve continues, and he has to be the sweetest fucking person that ever existed.“I understand that you're.... concerned,” he looks at her patiently. “But, it will make you softer. Having a baby will make you softer,” he says, and she needs a moment not to stumble over having - a - baby bit, and the way he says it, like it will happen. The thing is, neither her or Clint have said it, not like that, but from Steve it sounds normal, like all those hero things that are supposed to be done because those are the right things. But she is no hero.

She is about to comment and ask how being softer (or her having a child) should be a good thing, when he continues. “No, that's not what I meant. You already are soft – I mean, _everyone_ is soft, Natasha. There's nothing wrong with that, that's what I wanted to say,” he gets up. She's looking at him in disbelief. Soft is the last thing she would call herself, and soft is something nobody ever called her. Weak, yes, and broken; goddamned shattered; but never soft. In her mind those are connected, only soft is worse than any of them, because it implies kindness and hope and all those things she cannot be. 

“I should get going,” he says and smiles, comes closer to awkwardly pat her arms. “We've got your back,” he says. Then he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on her cheek, and she is too shocked to say anything. He leaves her with hands full of flowers and candy, and tears in her eyes. 

 

*

“That music will only make you depressed.” 

It's not like Tony to knock, or ask if he may enter. He just does, and after the entire day, and Steve's little intervention, Natasha doesn't want to deal with Tony on top of everything else. She could call Clint, but she can deal with Tony on her own, she has no reservations like she did with Steve, but her body is refusing to cooperate right now. 

“When did you become an expert in music?”

“I don't need to be an expert to know that thing is depressing,” He frowns and purses his lips. “It just looks like you're hitting Barton's existential crisis. What is that thing you're listening to?” he walks over the table and picks up the CD case, then sighs. “For God's sake, Romanoff. _The River_? This will not make you feel better. ”

“That's one of the best rock albums in history,” she deadpans. 

“Only 250th place of top 500 according to Rolling Stone magazine. Overrated in my opinion. I came to talk to you,” he turns off the music and sits in the chair across from her small couch and she gives him a glare. She has to pull herself up into sitting position. Carefully, though. Harsh movements could result in nausea, and she doesn't want to puke in front of Tony Stark. 

Or, maybe, she should puke _on_ him. 

“What if I don't want to talk to you?”

“In that case I'll talk and you'll listen,” he says and leans back in the chair. “I know what's troubling you.”

“Of course. You're very smart,” she says, all false calm and forced control, and leans back. At this point, she has to use most of her strength on breathing, ignoring Tony and not throwing up. 

“As the matter of fact, I am. I'm smarter than you think, and no, it's not about me being fucking curious. I just act like that because I know it annoys people, and if something annoys them enough, they react. That's not much different from that thing you do. Besides I like watching how I can … inspire reaction,” he says.

“Someone just might confuse it with rudeness,” she says. 

“I don't really care,” Tony shrugs. She watches him through half lidded eyes. “What I do care about is how much we all trust each other,” at that she opens her eyes and directs a glare at him. 

“It's a little bit past the point, don't you think? I could have killed you by now, if I wanted to.” 

“Not that kind of trust, Romanoff,” he sounds a little tired and he's looking at her with a thoughtful, studious expression, like she is a stubborn science project that's refusing to develop according to his ideas. “We are past that, this is a more subtle matter. Almost more important, if you ask me,” he pauses to just look at her. “Actually it is more important. How long do I know you? It doesn't matter which _name_ you use -”

“Do you have a point, Stark?”

“I do, actually. Names doesn't matter -,” he gets up and walks to her, pulls her upright, and that's really not a good idea. She sucks in a breath, while he's leading her towards a mirror, and at any other time she would just hit him. “What do you see?” he asks. 

“Stark,” she bites out, but her best threatening voice doesn't rattle him, he just sets his hands more firmly on her shoulders. 

“Start counting. Sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can determine what to do about your little situation -”

“Get your hands off me, Tony -”

“Fine, then. I'll give us a head start. Natalia Romanova, Natalie Rushman, Natasha Romanoff. Those I know. Actually, no, I don't really know what Romanova is like. But I know others. You can do all kinds of roles - spy, manipulator, assassin, double agent, personal assistant; one sixth of team Avengers.” He pauses. His words are peeling off layer by layer, and she realizes what he's trying to do. “You can wear any of those masks, or all of them, but the question remains, which one is you? The real you? Do you know that? Is it the one you made yourself after you ran away from the monsters who owned you, Natasha?” 

“- stop it,” her voice is a whisper and she doesn't like how it sounds, but she also knows Clint will never have this conversation like her, not like this. Tony doesn't intend sparing her, he doesn't want to deal with things by leaving them unspoken. Tony lives for words which poke at painful places. Clint doesn't treat her like he does because of mercy. But sometimes it's like standing and waiting for the train to crash into her and shatter her to pieces, so she could build herself anew. “You've been rewritten so many times, sometimes you might not know who you are any more. How could you raise another human being then? Give it an identity, a sense of who they're supposed to be, when you're still struggling to give one to yourself?” 

All she wants is to push him away, but something stops her. She was trained to notice every detail, find every single weakness, but only weakness she is able to find now is her own. Tony's face is steady and there's compassion in his voice. That's what makes her stay. Not his words. His voice. 

“Or can you?” he continues so softly, she can barely recognize him. “Can you do that?” 

“Fine,” she says and closes her eyes. Then she's quiet. Moments pass, but Tony keeps her there.

She looks at herself then. Breathes in and out, this is what she does, all the time, every day and every waking moment. She redefines herself, every aspect of herself, all the time, she always ponders, she makes one conscious decision after another. It's like her monsters keep reaching out from her past to drag her back, and she has to steal herself away. Again and again and again. That's what her life is. 

“Natalia,” she says. With accent, and her eyes fill with tears. _Natalia_ is somewhere in her past, hidden, buried, and sometimes she still wants to reach and drag her out of there. It goes back to somewhere, some place where a soft voice called her like that. She had forgotten the face, no; it was taken from her; but the voice remained. 

She pauses, because she just can't continue; and for once Tony doesn't push. He squeezes her shoulders. 

“Natalia, Natalie, Natasha,” he chants, close to her ear, and in the reflection she can see his eyes. “Nobody owns your life but you. You'll decide who you are and who you're not, and trust me, it's something all of us do, but most people don't deal with it on such fundamental level,” he says. 

And that is how Tony leaves her. With more tears, and hurt in her chest. It fills her up and bursts outside, leaving her empty, but at the end she feels open and raw, like she was scratched clean. 

 

*

Three days later the nightmares start. 

First one is about Loki. Second one is a variation, where Clint's face becomes Loki's and it disturbs her enough to keep her awake for an hour, and not even sound of Clint's breathing next to her helps. Third one, on third night, is about Red Room, taking her child. That one forces her out of the bed.

Natasha isn't afraid of darkness. She isn't afraid of pain or loneliness. Natasha isn't afraid of many things, and maybe that's one of the things so wrong about her. 

She knows Clint's apartment by heart – both of them, actually. The one in Stark tower is comfortable, the other one is a hideout. She thinks she would probably feel better in his old place. She likes this one, though, spacious and airy, with big windows and city lights flickering on the outside. 

She goes to kitchen and pours a glass of water. She leaves the light on there, but moves to the living room, to sit in front of windows and listen to music. She doesn't really like Clint's music, she tolerates it most of the time. It's sentimental, and most of the time unrealistic in her opinion; sometimes it's just too honest, but right now she'll take annoying and sentimental over images still floating in her mind. Besides it's _his_. 

She knows how he listens his music, what he likes on good days, what he uses to soothe his mind with.

She picks an Emmylou album, sits on a barstool, pulls her bare feet up. There's rain outside, again, and lights flickering around the tower. She feels pleasantly isolated, a lonely soul caught inside a watchtower, as Emmylou's voice uselessly rolls over her mind. She can't calm down. It feels like she's trapped, with sea of voices around her. 

“Thought you ran away.” 

She turns around. She is distressed; Clint usually can't sneak up on her, especially when he is sleepy like this. But she doesn't ponder on it, because even the sight of him brings something. It brings relief. It's not a new thing per se, she was relieved to see him number of times, but it was mostly, if not every time, in uncertainty of a battle. This is different, this is personal, and intimate. This is something that either builds or destroys a person, and this is Clint, with his familiar hands and eyes. 

“Couldn't sleep,” she says and he nods. 

“Should have woken me,” He's standing in front of her, fingers brushing her curls away. She looks up at him then and realizes that decision they're still not talking about is taking a solid form in her mind. She's looking at him looking at her, realizing that his music doesn't work without him. She knows her life without Clint would continue. She is the owner of her life, of herself; and it's a notion that comes back to her, over and over, since she decided to trust this man who showed her mercy. She looks at Clint's hands, they give out his true age and extent of his experience. She concentrates on a familiarity she feels with his fingers and palms and the color of his skin. A decision forms in her mind, it doesn't bring relief; but it does help her feel at peace with herself, at least a little. She realizes that she _can_ end this unplanned pregnancy, but she doesn't want to. 

There's a change in his expression, as if he could read her thoughts. There's something almost hopeful on his face. Hopes are frail, betraying things in their world. One must be careful with them, not give them wings. She thinks it must be hard not to, as they're looking at each other, and warmth spreads through her chest. Then she thinks, she decides, she's going to do this because of _him_. 

“I mean it,” he says when he takes her hand and pulls her to stand. It feels like he's picking her up a lot lately. “You should have woken me,” he pauses, looks at her long and soft. “Can't sleep?” he asks and she shakes her head. He pulls her closer, and she realizes what he plans to do when he sets her hands on his shoulders. At any other time she would protest. This time she leans into him, slides one hand into his, and he places it against his chest, like in an old movie. Emmylou sings a slow song, one of those Clint loves. Natasha lets herself melt into him, her face against his when they start to dance, slower than the song. 

She starts relaxing, as one song flows into another and they move together, two figures against sleepy city lights. She feels tired again, and when she yawns he proclaims it's bedtime. She follows him, and when they curl together, face to face, she takes his hand and places it against her stomach. 

“Tash?” he says quietly. 

“Yes,” she says. It's a complete sentence, a statement, a decision in one little word and he understands. She knows this, because he kisses her, slowly, softly, and she lets him pull her close and kiss her until her soul aches in her chest.

Natasha understands why she needs him. She tells herself that softer doesn't have to mean weaker. If she repeats it enough times, she might just believe it.

 

*

Tony stops prying. Mostly. What he does suspiciously feels like caring, but it's still annoying as hell. Natasha tells herself she really appreciates his efforts, but she still prefers Bruce, who is unassuming and mild mannered, and very considerate. There's bitterness to Bruce, and it comes from the experience of being unwanted and feared of, from knowing what it means to lose yourself and become unrecognizable. She can relate to that, and he can relate to her fears. That is what she likes the most, and now she can relax around him. 

Bruce does the basic stuff – her blood work and a general physical, and determines she is in good health and shape, and most definitely pregnant. Tony arranges for an obstetrician, a certain Doctor Fletcher, and pays the doctor enough to keep the matters confidential and make house calls. 

Natasha decides to go through the first ultrasound alone. She wants privacy, but she also needs some solid footing with this, on her own. But once alone with the doctor, a pleasant lady with soft hands, Natasha is feeling uncomfortable, and wants to keep her eyes closed. She doesn't though, if you meet your fears with closed eyes, you lose; so she keeps looking at the small screen of the ultrasound. 

Nothing happens at first. She doesn't feel anything in particular while she observes the screen, except being aware of her heart beating, faster and louder than usual. The doctor smiles at her. 

“Everything looks okay,” she says, like Natasha is just another happy expectant woman. The image on the screen shifts. 

“Oh,” is all Natasha says. Her eyes are glued to the screen. 

“You're eight weeks along, and this,” the woman points with her finger at the screen, “this is your baby.”

Natasha stares. It's real and it's there, it has a shape. It looks like something only becoming human, but she thinks she can see the head, and something that could be arms. It's the moment when it becomes _real_ ; as real as the sheet she clutches in her hand.

The doctor gives her advices and leaves her sitting on a gurney when Clint and Bruce poke their heads in, and the rest of the team is hanging behind them. 

“Nat?” Clint calls. 

She is sitting with a black and white screenshot in her hands, but to her it feels more like a photograph. Natasha doesn't have photographs, she doesn't even remember ever having them. This is her first. And while others remain by the door, Clint comes closer, until he's next to her and she shows him – the first photograph she owns. He holds her then, and she doesn't see how four men by the door share a smile. 

 

*

The conversation with Fury isn't a pleasant affair, but it goes better than any of them expect. Tony insists that the whole team is there and Cap, Thor and Bruce agree. Clint doesn't protest.

Fury, to his credit, doesn't look surprised. Not delighted, Clint thinks, if his general demeanor is anything to go by, but he isn't shocked, and isn't furious either. He definitely isn't a spy of spies for nothing, and no matter how stealthy he and Natasha were about everything going on between them, it seems that Fury was aware of it all along. One doesn't become a superspy by being easily surprised. Clint assumes that he resigned himself with the fact that he can't rule over this team. He can send them to missions but he knows well enough they have to accept to be sent somewhere. Suddenly, Clint feels something completely different and new – or at least, this is when it settles in his mind. He isn't a hired gun any more, not a piece that SHIELD can just pick up and move. Ironically, when he and Natasha marched off into a war with Avengers like soldiers, they became much more than that. 

“An agent on a maternity leave? That's definitely a first,” is all what Fury says after the dust of their announcement settles down and he glares at them with his good eye. Next to Clint, Steve is steadily looking back at Fury, and Clint feels, rather than realizes, the meaning of having a team. “I assume you've made your decision?” 

Clint realizes another thing then. He really is sentimental, as much as a man like him can be, because he reaches for Natasha's hand under the desk and holds it. She lets him; she gives him a look, but she still lets him get away with it. Tony sees it, but cards are finally on the table and Clint doesn't really care. 

“We have,” Natasha says. Clint can hear an anxious undertone to her voice, so he squeezes her hand once more and lets it go. She looks at him and licks her lips. Fury just nods, because he's right on his assumption, he will have an agent on maternal leave; only Natasha isn't merely an agent any more. She isn't replaceable either. 

“Fine. I'll see if we can keep you useful, Agent Romanoff,” Clint supposes Fury will never call her anything else, and he is okay with that. Natasha worked hard for that title, she won't be giving it up. 

“Actually, I have a suggestion,” Tony pushes a file folder towards Fury. “Those high security facilities we were discussing earlier this month?”

“What about them?”

“Well, I think they'll be even more secure if they're tested by one person who can crack any kind of security,” Tony nods at Natasha, and the tension in the room loosens. “No offense, Barton.”

“None taken,” Clint says. “She does the fun stuff. I shoot.”

“That, actually sounds like a good idea,” Fury settles for it with a sigh. “Barton can help as well,” he suggests and Clint nods, feeling cautious relief washing over him. Fury looks at him and Natasha then. “Have two of you considered security aspects of your situation?”

“If I may, sir -” Tony interrupts and continues before anyone can stop him. “Anyone who'd be crazy enough to do harm to their kid? Would probably die slow and very painful death. Also, they'd have to count on four very angry uncles.”

Fury gives Tony this priceless, incredulous look. 

“For once, sir, I agree with Stark,” Steve interjects. “We all do, don't we?”

Bruce nods, and Clint actually feels his heart swelling a little. Okay, a lot. Which is something he didn't expect. He shares a look with Natasha, and finds a reflection of his own feelings in her eyes. 

“Is it customary to consider yourself a relative of someone's future child, Stark?” Thor asks. 

“If you're crazy enough,” Fury says, not quite successful in covering up amusement. 

“Or if you're really good friends,” Bruce adds. Cap looks proud, and Natasha doesn't really know how to react, and Fury looks oddly pleased. 

“This will either be the worst thing you could pull on me,” he says and stands. “Or the best.” Team Avengers lets out a mutual sigh of silent relief.

 

*

“I am simply saying you can't compare Starfleet to the Empire,” Bruce speaks in the very same manner he uses to discuss science, and doesn't even turn around to face Tony who is standing behind the kitchen counter, and making what has to be the world's spiciest pizza ever. 

“Of course you can't. Starfleet is vastly superior, not to mention has cooler looking ships,” claims Tony. Bruce does turn around at this, pulls his glasses down his nose a little and gives Tony that not – amused – teacher look. 

“There isn't a ship that's cooler than _The Millennium Falcon_ ,” Bruce says. Natasha looks sideways at Clint, notices the smirk he's keeping contained while he's handing her clean dishes to dry. Every so often her hands brush the bump of her stomach. It's round and hard and it's an added weight. It's getting harder to stand for a longer period of time. Her body grows, becoming more demanding and she has to adjust and readjust and it's just not something she enjoys, while her emotions are harder to contain. She doesn't like the unpredictability. She is used to have every bit and aspect of herself under control, and now she just cannot do it in the same way. She is not good with being in control of hormonal and other processes raging through her, and she knows she cannot battle them, so she's trying to live along with them. 

“ _The Millenium Falcon_ looks like something put together in scrapyard,” says Tony and Natasha chuckles a little – because of his tone, his attitude, the way he's holding himself in these unimportant discussions. “ _The Enterprise_ is faster, and _Flacon_ would be massively outgunned. Not to mention _Falcon_ would just flat out die due to sheer envy.”

“But _Falcon_ can run away,” Bruce lifts a finger. At this point Cap and Thor are watching the back and forth between the two scientists with a curious confusion on their faces. “In an awesome, sneaky way.”

“It's the _only_ thing it can do,” Tony says. 

“And lures _The Enterprise_ straight into the hands of the Empire,” Clint interrupts suddenly and winks at Natasha. Tony turns around and looks outraged. 

“I'm sensing a traitor among my ranks,” he says. 

“You assumed I was among your ranks, which is not a problem of mine,” Clint is joking, but his face is dead serious. At this point Steve and Thor are grinning in their chairs and the movie is forgotten. The mood is rubbing off Natasha as well, and she is wearing a mild grin on her own face. 

“So, a Warsie?” Tony asks and Clint crosses his arms on his chest. 

“I have the Force on my side, Commander Data,” Clint says, and Bruce laughs briefly. 

“Not funny, because it's not nearly accurate, but I am impressed with your attempt anyway,” Tony turns around and resumes his work on the pizza. Or tries to, at least. 

“Funny or not, Starfleet doesn't stand a chance against Empire,” Bruce says. 

“Agreed,” Clint says. “Murder by the numbers. Incredibly big numbers of Empire's forces. The Starfleet is a tiny little bug compared to it.”

That earns him one of Tony's finest glares. 

“Starfleet is technologically superior and capable of applying a strategy that would lead into Empire's demise.” Tony is stubborn. Natasha leaves the dishes and joins him over at the kitchen counter, because Tony is too busy with the nerd debate to put enough attention into pizza he's making. 

“The only demise that would happen would be the one of Starfleet's redshirts, who are completely useless,” Bruce says and Cling sniggers out loud. 

“What is this thing you are discussing?” Thor finally asks. 

“Two movies with two different, imaginary armies,” Steve offers and it's not a wrong answer, yet it's not the complete and accurate answer, but it would be difficult to explain correctly why this is one of the greatest nerd debates existing. 

“A numerous army always has an advantage,” Thor observes seriously. For some reason this makes Natasha chuckle, and she knows it doesn't go unnoticed. She's aware that Tony is organizing these dinner and movie nights for months now so they could all be around her, because they know they're not allowed to actually keep an eye on her. She assumes it's sweet and she learns to accept it, and sometimes they're fun. It's better than being alone, and it's better than long, anxious conversations between her and Clint. 

It's better than the nightmares. 

“Point there,” Steve says. “There's a reason why Germans couldn't conquer Russia,” he adds. 

“Yes, they froze to death, Captain Genius,” Tony replies. 

“Technologically advanced, but underestimated their enemy they have,” Clint actually does a good impression of Yoda, and Bruce starts laughing. A real, loud, hearty laugh, which in turn makes Natasha laugh as well. It's quieter and shorter, but it's a real laugh as well. 

“Why are you speaking like that?” Thor asks, confused and it only serves to make Bruce laugh harder, and Natasha as well, and Clint is laughing too. 

“Doc, just don't get too excited,” Steve says mildly, and Bruce shakes his head, says through laughter that everything is okay. 

“Yes, yes, let's not tickle the other guy,” Tony says. 

“Don't be such a sore loser, Stark. Empire just handed you your iron ass on a platter with Satfleet's insignia,” Clint walks over with his chin held high. Natasha lets the laughter sink into her chest, with a good, quiet feeling of contentment. The boys aren't only watching over her, or simply being with her. They're trying to tell her in action, not in words, that there's a safety net to catch her. The thought gives her an ambivalent sentiment, because she knows everything can be taken away. Several months ago they were a team but the mutual boundaries were further apart. Now Tony is being their Mama Bear and Bruce enjoys jokes and the feeling of being included, Thor still asks questions that amuse the rest of them and Steve is getting better at various cultural references. He still has several decades to catch up on, but Natasha feels what she has to catch up on is impossibly more than everything Steve has to learn. Even Clint knows how to do this, how to be a part of something that resembles a family, but she is still adjusting, because she has to. In four months her stomach will be done growing and she wants to have a clue what to do with a baby, once it's there and needing her. 

“We have Q,” Tony starts the debate again. 

“Q versus Master Yoda? A chance has he not,” Clint smiles a little evily. 

“Borg,” Tony crosses his arms and mirrors Clint's stance. 

“Obliterated into nothingness by Death Star,” Bruce offers helpfully, his finger in air. 

“Thanks Doc,” Clint says. 

“Any time, my young Padawan,” Bruce winks. 

“Fine,” Tony wears his pout remarkably well. “You do win. At _crappy prequels_ ,” he points out. 

Everyone but Thor cracks up, but even Thor is benevolently smiling. 

“You know, as long as my commander doesn't end up with a torn shirt every time he's in a -oh,” Natasha doesn't finish the thought because she feels _something_. Something completely new and foreign and her hand lands on top of her stomach, then slides down, seeking that sensation. She looks at it and everyone else looks at her, and Clint is in front of her instantly, worry written all over his face. 

“Nat? Are you -”

“Oh,” she says again when she feels it. It's a soft ripple inside of her stomach, down on the left side, like a butterfly's touch. She covers the spot with her hand, looks at her splayed fingers, at Clint, at the rest of the men who are now all on their feet ready to do something, anything. 

She feels it again and this time, it's a purposeful brush against her hand. She grabs Clint's hand and presses it against her stomach and in that moment realization covers Bruce's face. 

“Oh my God -” 

“Can you feel it?” she asks. Her voice doesn't sound like hers. Clint swallows, nods. “It's -” she looks at Tony, whose face is uncharacteristically soft, at Steve who is actually teary eyed, and Bruce and Thor are smiling behind them, and they're all here. “It's -” 

“The baby,” Clint finds the words when she can't. “Baby's moving,” he says, smiles, oh _how he smiles_ , and she just nods, speechless and overwhelmed. She holds onto his hand while her world shifts out of its orbit and goes someplace new.

This time she doesn't resist. She just can't. 

 

*

“Nat,” he whispers into darkness. “Sleep.”

She waits a little. “I can't,” she admits finally. Ever since she felt it, she is waiting for it, she wants to feel it again. Natasha operates with facts, things she can determine and analyze, and her mind is craving for more. She wants a proof that this is real – and 'this', she can't explain what it is, or maybe she doesn't want to face it just yet. It's not just the baby, her stomach is proof enough that there is something growing inside of her. 

Clint moves towards her. His arms are steady, sure of themselves, like he knows how he's supposed to touch her, and she melts into his side. She notices how she stopped thinking of it as a luxury, how she's not hiding any more that her every night is spent here. 

“You'll feel it again. With time you'll feel it more often. I've read it becomes pretty unpleasant by the end,” he says. 

“Oh, you've read it?” she lets the smile into her voice. 

“Yeah,” he answers softly. 

“You've been reading pregnancy books?”

“I'm an agent, Nat. I come prepared,” he says, and he's surprised her again, because she didn't really imagine him doing it. “I'm someone's dad now,” he says and touches her stomach.

This is her change in a nutshell - she is used to taking new roles, borrowing her face and her body to made up personalities for the sake of the mission. She became a new person so many times, because it was the task she had. She was paid to play a role. It wasn't her choice; _nothing_ was her choice. 

Ever since she joined SHIELD, there was no sketch of who she should be, no instructions, no roles. This time she had to find herself on her own. It begun years ago, and she was still not done; like building a never ending wall that draw a line between who she was and who she didn't want to be. 

Clint was always the other way around, the man with the solid footing and certain aim. He still is, most of the time, even though he had a bitter taste of chaos and loss. They started as opposites, ending as similarities, entwining everywhere. He isn't stronger than her, and she isn't stronger than him, they are equals, and they face everything like that. 

In the beginning, she didn't have anyone. Not even herself. Now she has multitudes. 

“Bruce gave me some books,” he whispers into her neck. This is so out of character, so insanely, impossibly far from everything they are and should be. 

“We can read books together,” she says slowly. Most of the time she doesn't know what to do with moments like this; with Tony's movie evenings and picnics and beach – going. She only knows how to be with Clint. She had raised her walls, strong and tall, defined her own space within them, only to learn how let other people in. What she has now is different than partnership, and even love; but she and Clint have never been defined solely by love. This is stronger and violently dangerous in its potential to break her into pieces. 

Beside her Clint starts to hum, something mellow and familiar. She begins to relax. 

First time she met him, he told her he knew the way out – at that time it meant out of the crossfire, and she followed him; the man who spared her existence and gave her a chance of life. 

She trusts that he knows the way now as well. 

 

*

Natasha isn't the only one with nightmares. 

She is the one who has them more often, but Clint's nightmares are worse. 

She is seven months along and she moves much slower than she would like to. Clint is in the living room, sitting in front of large, wide windows, observing the blinking lights of the city. They both do this after nightmares hit, sit and stare, like they're confessing sins and fears to distant lights. 

She can tell it's bad. There's something about the way he's sitting as if he's crumbling into himself. He looks smaller like this and she is guessing what kind of look will be on his face when she finally reaches him. 

He must have heard her by now; it's hard not to, with the way she moves, but he doesn't acknowledge her presence. She knows this Clint, the withdrawn, dark creature sitting in the corner of his echoing mind, watching out for monsters. She used to fight this Clint, and make him fight through this, but she cannot do that anymore. 

Natasha walks in his direction, but halfway there she changes her mind. She goes to his stereo instead and picks a random recording. They're all mellow to some extent, and that's exactly what she needs. What he needs as well. The music spreads through the space of the room and he finally reacts. He watches her coming closer, to him. When she's there she can see the echoes of the damage in his eyes. She knows what it is about, and since she can't fix him like she thinks she should, there's only this. When she reaches for his hand and pulls, he follows. It's never good when he's like this, powerless and almost limp in her arms. Soothing him with a hand on his back feels strange, but she does it anyway, and they move slowly. It's easier when he's the one leading the dance, when it's his hand on her back. He does relax eventually, she feels it along her arms, in her fingertips; and she relaxes along with him. 

Perhaps it's not her kind of music, and her body is heavy and doesn't feel like her own any more, but she still can do this. She still can pick him up and help him put the pieces back together.

“It's getting harder to dance with you,” he says then, and she pokes him lightly in the side. “Ow,” he protests, but she knows it's okay to do this now. 

“Look who's complaining,” she says. “This is your fault.”

“Are you saying I did this all by myself?” he asks and she looks up at him. 

“I might have helped a little,” she says and returns to his embrace. It's a bit more comfortable now when the tension is gone from his body. His cheek is against her forehead, her stomach is pushing into his front and he is trying to morph himself around her to best of his abilities. The nightmare issue is pushed aside, he is concentrating on things he can feel under his fingertips. She wants a stronger impact, though, something to replace the punches. So she says, “It's a girl.”

That makes him react momentarily. 

“What? How -”

“Ultrasound was yesterday, while you were -”

“Nat!” his face is covered with surprise and hurt. She feels brief guilt over it, but smothers it. She has her reasons. “I wasted my afternoon with Stark instead of going with you! Why didn't you -”

She places a hand on his lips, then onto his cheek and smiles. It's a little selfish of her, she thinks, but ultrasounds are still something she wants to do on her own. She can't explain it better than having just one thing to be only her own. 

“Since I can't kick your ass at the moment, I need something for my tactical advantage -” he's not happy, but that is better than hiding away in darkness. 

“I can't believe you've just said that!” 

“You can be there when she's born,” she says then, and by now she is starting to smile. “Do I need to repeat myself?” His protests are slowly getting ruined by the smile tugging the corners of his lips.

“ _She_. A baby girl,” he says, and they shift from the world of nightmares and monsters into that parallel reality that resides here, with city lights and his music. Sometimes she thinks this thing they have here wouldn't survive if they ever tired to take it someplace else, and how on the outside they're just pretending. She knows that there will always be nightmares, his and hers, but as long as there's a way to fight them, they might struggle through. 

 

*

Tony won't say it aloud, but this is pretty awesome. Not the bunch – of – guys- handbuilding – baby – furniture part, but that subtle thing underneath. Like, there's Banner, laughing. He looks relaxed. Tony won't tell, but he lets them poke their fun at him, because- well, _because_. Because Barton now has one fully equipped nursery in his apartment, down to yellow painted walls; superheroes hand – made. And he's bringing the beer from the fridge and Captain nudges Thor. They're so ridiculous, covered in paint and wood dust; it's almost poetry. 

Then she comes home. Is it her home? She does spend most of her time here; Barton does have better furniture and music and DVDs and stuff like that. They all set their beer bottles on available surfaces and Barton goes to seek her out. She has her hands full of files. She's been to Bunker One, as they call the first super secure facility they've been working on for last couple of months. Tony never thought Natasha would spend her pregnancy knitting on her couch, but there's more to her never ending work than just her need to do something. 

She and Barton don't exchange cheek kisses, like most people do, but they do exchange looks. She allows a tender squeeze of the shoulder to Steve, Banner says stuff that makes her smile a little, and Thor goes on about the heroic undertaking of the day. Which leads her to the nursery, and her face lets on more than she would like to, but only for a moment. She takes a quick tour, rubbing her quite big stomach, gives Barton this look only two of them can translate, and goes to the living room. She says she likes it, and she does. 

Tony gets his moment an hour later. Rest of the guys are watching football – one among rare things all of them can agree on – while Natasha goes to hide inside the freshly painted nursery. Tony knows it's not cool to stalk upon her like this. Unlike most people think, he does have a concept of privacy, he just chooses to ignore that such thing exists when higher purposes ought to be achieved. 

“Romanoff,” he greets, and she doesn't bother hiding that thing she has in her hands. Little white slippers. She just holds it and stares ahead. 

“Stark,” she controls her voice. 

“Feeling okay?” he asks. 

“Just fine,” she responds and puts the slippers into a bag. Topic out of limits, he thinks.

“You've been working a lot lately,” he proceeds, walking to her. They stand over the crib – gorgeous cherry wood, put together by hand. Barton and Banner did it, and had a good laugh while misreading the instructions. 

“I need to finish my assessment of security protocols,” she says. 

He plays along. “How does that go?” She gives him a side glance. 

“What do you want?” she asks, studying a model of Solar system hanging above the crib. Cap got that. 

Okay, so he'll cut the chase. He and Romanoff have this no bullshit, straightforward policy. “ _Kobayashi Maru_. That's your answer,” he says. Tony mentally highfives himself when she gives him a look telling him she has no idea what he's talking about. That was his goal after all. “Haven't you seen _The Wrath of Khan?_ ”

“It's a bad movie,” she states. 

“It's an epic movie. I'm disappointed by your sense of pop culture-”

“I thought it was called personal taste?” she lifts an eyebrow. 

“Whatever. Kobayashi Maru is what makes Kirk awesome, and better than Han Solo and Obi Van combined, and don't you snort at my arguments.”

“Do you have a point?” she asks. He shifts to the side and different light falls on her through the windows. The setting sun makes her look different, softer, and no matter how cliché it sounds, she glows. Only, she doesn't glow in that content way a pregnant woman certainly could. 

“The mission is a routine thing,” Tony starts. It's a guess good as any – not that he can really read her mind like Barton can, but he can give it a try. “I won't give you the we'll-look-out-for-him crap, but we will. He will look out for us, that's what a team does. Also, I want to get back home in one piece, and I think rest of them want as well, so there's that. You can rest assured we'll do all necessary precaution and all that jazz. My point is this. Best thing you can do is cheat,” he slips in the semi serious tone as he admires the windows. Those are technically his windows, but technicalities be damned. Real life is always messier. “In a no win scenario you change the rules so you can win. That's Kobayashi Maru. That's why I like Trek,” he looks at her briefly. “It's not afraid to be messy. Possibilities upon possibilities.”

“Is there some kind of poetic message in your little talk?” she asks, but her irony isn't really at its best. She's not immune to all those hormones after all, and Tony knows he's hit close to home. 

“Of course there is. This thing we do will never be easy. It will never be safe, you will never have a normal life. But you don't have to walk down the path, you can kind of... cheat your way through it,” he says and shrugs, because this thing _does_ hit a little close to home. It's not like he's made of bravado, even though he wears it well. Like a damn fine classy suit. She looks at him and regards him thoughtfully. It's a rare thing when he has a feeling that she's approachable. “Anyway. Nice slippers.”

“Thanks. Pepper got them.”

“She has a good taste,” he says and puffs his chest a little. She rolls her eyes at him, but a smile escapes. 

“Thanks,” she says. 

“It's not all bad, Romoanoff. Besides, that kid will have freaking amazing uncles,” he pats her on the shoulder and leaves. 

 

*

She screams and her body feels like it's splitting. The pain lasts too long to count, and as she tries to concentrate on her berating, as Bruce's voice comes to her – _breathe, yes, you're doing okay, breathe_. But it's hard, and it hurts, and it feels like a physical manifestation of everything that's been bottled up inside her for past nine months. She slumps against Steve, who is sitting behind her, serving as a human pillow, so she wouldn't be against the wall. 

They're locked out. Simple as that. They're locked out at the worst time possible, in this fortress that she and Tony have built, and somewhere, five or six stores above, Tony is trying to break through the security protocols gone insane, and Clint and Thor are with him. Everyone save Tony is useless now, even she is, because she is doing this. She is apparently having a baby now. 

“I need to take a look,” Bruce says, and she nods. At this point she is way past the embarrassment, she is just glad to have him here, but she wants Clint. It's just not fair, and she's terrified, completely terrified because she doesn't have _any_ control over this. Bruce is gentle, gentler than she imagined he could be, and he gives her a steady look when he looks up at her. 

“No,” she says, because inevitability is written all over his face. 

“You're fully dilated,” he says. “This is happening now.”

“No,” she whimpers, not really certain why she's so scared and sad. 

“We're here,” Steve soothes from behind her back, his hands completely steady. “We've got you, right, Banner?”

“We sure do. You can do this,” Bruce says when another contraction starts. Her body feels like a knot of pain, like a string stretched too far, and yet all that pain feels so futile, because once it stops she slumps against Steve again. She had never felt powerless quite like this. “You got this, Natasha,” he assures. 

She has to do this. She knows this, and she breathes and growls through pain and holds onto Steve's hands and listens so Bruce's voice. She thinks of Clint, his hands, arms, concentrates until she relives every piece and every detail of him in her mind, and Bruce is now telling her to push. It feels like all of her strength is gone, and she thinks she can't, she tries, puts her every single thought, all of her power into this. Steve leans forward by Bruce's instructions, pulls her up, and Bruce is saying things, but she can't distinguish the words. Her body feels like a raw wound, and the pain isn't stopping, it's ripping through her, hot and white. It's not going anywhere , and she just wants - 

“Yes, just a little bit more, push Tasha, -” Bruce says, and she almost doesn't realize what's happening, and she pushes, because that's all she can do, when it happens. That sound. That cry, so soft and so loud at the same time. It feels like a hit in the chest, and she's completely spent and exhausted, so she just collapses against Steve. 

“Oh, God,” Steve says, and she can feel his chest move behind her back, and Bruce is saying something, and he's looking at her, smiling, and -

She blinks. Breathes, swallows, looks as Bruce's hands move as he's works. He finally wraps the baby in the shirt he had taken off earlier, leaving him in an undershirt. He's smiling like she's never seen him smile when he leans forward with her baby in his arms. 

“Here's your daughter,” he says, and she swallows through her dry throat. She's not ready for this, but her hands move on their own and they're shaking and Bruce helps her. She feels shattered and rebuilt and so bare boned it hurts.

“Oh, Tasha. She's beautiful,” Steve says, still behind her like a wall of support. Natasha holds her daughter close, small and wrinkled, looking nothing like babies do on pictures; but this sight is so much better. So fitting. They're both so raw and new in this world, Natasha and the little girl she's holding. When the baby opens her eyes Natasha's heart almost pauses and everything goes still. 

Everything just stops. She can't even name things she is feeling, but it's the single most powerful thing she remembers; how her world narrows and smooths over and how _fierce_ this emotion is. It's almost unbearable, because just a moment ago her daughter was a part of her and holding her feels like holding her heart out in her palm, where anyone can see it. Natasha's hand shakes when she touches the baby's face, and she makes a tiny sound and Natasha holds her against her chest – against her heart- nobody tells her to, it just feels right to do it that way. 

“Congratulations,” Bruce says softly. 

“Thank you,” she answers and shifts against Steve. 

“I think she looks like her dad,” Steve says, adjusting, so she'd feel more comfortable. 

“I – you may be right,” Natasha says, and her voice sounds emotional and weepy, a thousand miles from her other selves, her masks and covers and her control. It finally makes sense, what Steve told her months ago.

Suddenly the comm link on a console at the rear wall comes to life. 

“ _Banner? What is going on there?_ ”

It's Tony, sounding nervous as hell and she just wants to cry and laugh and all of it makes her throat so tight. Bruce gets up and walks to the comm. 

“Uh, we-” he looks back to Natasha and smiles, “we have another team member here now-”

“ _Oh my God! Is everything okay?!_ ”

“Calm down, Tony, we're all okay,we just need to get out of here -”

They both sound so emotional. Natasha usually doesn't like overwhelming emotions, and she definitely doesn't like to be at the center of it, but now everything just rolls over and settles down and she looks into her daughter's face and everything fades. Just fades, because her world has gained a new frame of reference. 

“Well, um, that's why I'm calling. Try the door now -”

“Steve? Can you -?”

Steve gently settles Natasha against the wall and goes for the door, then opens it. 

“Good work, Stark,” says Bruce. 

“ _You guys head up to the Tower, we'll be right behind. I need to crack few more codes before we can get out -_ ”

“ _Nat? Are you okay?_ ”

It's Clint, worried and anxious and her heart wants to burst through her chest. 

“She's okay, Barton, they, uh, they both are -” Bruce says. 

“ _The baby?_ ” Clint asks. 

“She's okay. She looks like you,” Bruce says, smile stuck to his face. 

“ _Oh. Oh. Oh God,_ ” Natasha nearly laughs, because blubbering Clint isn't a common occurrence. “ _Okay, Just – make sure they're safe, Banner._ ”

“Will do,” Bruce says. The comm link goes silent and Steve is there, helping Natasha get to her feet. She manages, and he still has to support her. She tries walking and discovers it's best if Steve carries her, but that's okay. That's what they're here for; in her life, in all of this, and everything they’re doing together. Just like in Clint's sappy songs, they carry each other. 

*

It's the longest two fucking hours in Clint's life and frankly, Tony Stark is lucky to keep his limbs and the head on his shoulders, but he finally does fix the damn lockup and they can go. Clint is in a pretty insane state of mind, which means Tony gets to drive them, even though Clint would run all the way to Stark tower. He doesn't though, he sits in the backseat, a tense knot of nerves as Tony drives. Thor is quiet and one could just slice through the air in the car and get themselves cut on shrapnels. 

Once in the Tower they bolt for the elevator and head to the infirmary area, and nobody can stop Clint any more. He half runs, and bumps into people and someone tells him “that way”, someone else tells him “room twenty – four” and five minutes later he's there. He opens the door and there they are, finally. Natasha sleeps, and there's a small bassinet to her right, Bruce is sitting on her left, and Cap is behind him, standing by the window. 

“You're here,” Bruce says, and Clint walks in, quietly, holds his breath and comes closer. He stands between the bed and the bassinet and doesn't know where to look or what to do, what to think. He's rooted to the spot, his heart beating in his throat. 

Clint nears Natasha first. Her hair is still sweaty, and exhaustion is written all over her face as she sleeps. Still, if there is one thing in this world that's absolutely beautiful, then it's her. He leans in close, kisses her forehead and whispers _thank you_ , before he turns to the other side. 

And that's when his heart swells and fills up completely. It feels like million perfect songs wrapped into one and pushed straight into his soul. He stands still, his hands hovering slightly above the bassinet. She is so small, so tiny, and he doesn't dare picking her up. 

“Let me help you,” Bruce says. He becomes this completely different person when he is a doctor, and this is the gentlest that Clint had seen him yet. He picks up the baby and shows Clint how to properly hold her. 

She is light in his arms, and yet the responsibility he feels is tremendous. Clint isn't used to hold something this precious and fragile. He basks in this new feeling and doesn't even notice that he paces around the room, his eyes on her and nothing else. Finally, when he looks up Bruce and Steve are smiling, and Thor and Tony are there; everyone just caught in this moment. Everyone. All of them. 

“Well. Look at you,” Tony says as a grin splits his face. Clint can't be angry at him anymore, there's just not enough room for that in his chest. Tony comes closer, looking at the wrapped little bundle in Clint's arms. “And look at her,” he says, and it's a rare thing when Tony Stark isn't a sarcastic smartass. His smile is honest. “She's gorgeous,” he says. 

“She is,” Clint agrees, because to him, she is perfect. She doesn't even have a name yet, but right now she is everything to him. 

“She's strong,” Thor says, and perhaps that's a ridiculous thing to say about a baby, but his child, Natasha's child, can be nothing if not strong. 

“She's gonna make us all softer, you realize that?” Tony says. 

“Somehow I can't disagree,” Clint murmurs, still looking at her. 

“You always were a softie,” Natasha's voice sounds tired, and Clint finally looks up. “You're here,” she says. 

“I'm here,” he says, and he's there with her. Natasha takes the baby in her arms like she's been doing it for thousand years. Every fear of not doing this right fades, and right here, right now something inside of him finally clicks into place. He shouldn't feel this optimistic, because nothing in life is easy or simple, yet right now he just can't help it. Everything, his every step, his every different call has led him here. 

“You weren't there when -”

He knows what she means. Knows what she wants to say, what she wants to apologize for, and he isn't going to let her, because he loves her the way she is. Exactly the way she is. 

“I am here now,” he says. 

The team silently leaves, while three of them remain, Clint's entire world wrapped in his arms. 

 

*

 

Natasha learns that one can be exhausted and still have trouble sleeping. 

There's soreness all around. Her breasts constantly get in the way. Each time Amy moves in her bed, Natasha wakes up, which means she spends more time awake during the night than Amy does. Sometimes Amy just refuses to be put into her crib, and Natasha has to keep her in her arms, close to her chest, and it's draining in more ways she could count. 

Sometimes Natasha falls asleep on her feet. This isn't just exhaustion, this is a mission consisting of constant sleepwalking. 

Right now she can't fall asleep. She curls under the covers – it's nice to be able to sleep on her side again – and she forces her eyes closed, but her mind just won't calm down. Clint is being sweet, he's got Amy with him, and the music is quiet, but she can still hear it. She's annoyed at herself, because he is calming down a fussy baby so she could sleep. And she can't sleep – part of her brain wanted to check and see if Amy is really calm, because when she was like this, she wouldn't calm down for anyone, save her mother. 

The other thing is, she simply wants to see them. 

She can sneak onto them, finally. Clint picked Alison and her band, and he sways slowly in the middle of the room, with Amy against left side of his chest. Natasha smiles. Good boy. That's how it's done. That smile of his keeps her rooted on the spot. 

Then, of course, he squints at her and grins, because this is the first time in two months he managed to calm Amy on his own. She assumes he's entitled to feel proud when she walks to them. 

“Look who's up,” he says contently. 

“I'm exhausted and can't sleep,” she rubs her eyes. 

“I have on good authority music is good for helping with that,” he says. Amy is awake, but she is contently drooling all over Clint's shirt. She looks like a little cat in his arms, still so small and precious. They make a curious contrast which causes things to shift inside Natasha's chest. She's used to smoothing things over, dealing with them, living through them, no matter what they were. This is difficult to deal with, because as much as she doesn't want it to happen, it overwhelms her. All that longing and protectiveness and _love_. 

“Except it's keeping me awake,” she complains. He opens one eye. 

“You gotta mix it with cuddling to work properly,” he says. Only then she notices PacMan boxers and bites the inside of her cheek to contain a laugh. She isn't like him, she can't just flow with the moment. She's doing this, and God, she _loves_ this baby, and she loves _him_ , and it is for children, because children don't regret loving. But at the same time she's constantly looking over her shoulder. Anyone who would even think of hurting them would pay. Bitterly so. That is how she cheats her way through the impossible scenario – she takes both; love and pain, fiercely holds onto one and watches out for the other. 

“I don't really see any cuddling partners around here,” she says. His eyes are soft, with a teasing glint to them. 

“No?” he asks. 

She shakes her head and observes them as Clint keeps swaying. 

“You got yourself the prettiest girl in the room,” she says and this time she does smile. “You're taken.”

“Seems correct,” he says. He's just as tired as she is, because they're both light sleepers. “I do have another shoulder,” he offers. 

Steve was right. She had become so soft in some aspects that she doesn't even bat an eye. Clint's arm waits as an invitation and in a moment or so, she's against his chest, and his arm is wrapping around her. 

“You think this will work for you?” he asks. 

“This?” she opens her eyes to share a look at him. His eyes are a safe place to fall; and he is all good things, solid things she shouldn't afford, but she chooses to have them in her life. She touches Amy's little hand and watches their daughter – _their daughter_ \- fall asleep against his chest. No matter how fragile this bond may seem to her, it's possibly, probably, pretty damn unbreakable. She doesn't answer his question, she just smiles and he kisses her.


End file.
